No Strings Attatched
by Marquesa de Santos
Summary: An explanation as to why the little puppet boy abandoned the little princess to the whims of the foster system. Rated M for mature themes. One-Shot.


**Eh. I suppose a warning is in order. This story is going to give a very light depiction of child molestation, hence the M rating. Read with caution. If this is a trigger for you, don't read at all. This is NOT MA. It really is just M, and could probably be T, but I'm playing it safe. Read at your own risk.**

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No Strings Attatched

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Pinocchio did not know why the blue fairy had told him to change his name, but he decided to listen. She knew best, after all. Papa had cried, told him to be strong, hugged him, and made him promise to take care of the little princess.

"Of course, papa."

There was still the matter of a new name, after all, and he asked his father what name he thought suitable. Gepetto had thought for a moment before settling on "August, my great son."

And then he had been shoved into the wardrobe (it smelled like home, but the feeling was gone too quickly), stumbled out of a tree, and been blinded by a flash of light that signaled the arrival of the little princess. It had happened so quickly, he felt he was dreaming. He picked his way toward the towering oak (he'd always been very good at discerning tree species, even after gaining his real boy-ness) and found a small small baby, wrapped in a crocheted blanket with the name "Emma" stitched upon it.

"Hi, baby." He whispered, touching her face. He lifted her in his small arms, terrified he'd break her, and she gave a soft little whimper cry.

He walked through the chilly dampness, clutching her to his small body in the hopes that he could warm her, all the while murmuring "It's okay, principessa. I promise to take care of you."

~oOo~

Pinocchio did not like his new house. It was cramped and smelt of mold (he really really really didn't like mold and avoided it like the plague) and the "dad" was strange. He had come into Pinocchio's room the first night and told him if he made a noise, he'd kill him, and little Emma, too.

He felt so ashamed. He did not understand at all, but it hurt and felt weird and icky. He had tried so hard not to cry, but it hurt so bad. So so bad. This was not what papas did. Papas did not hurt their sons. Papas did not turn sons on their bellies and grunt and call them little bastards as they pulled red hair and _hurt_ them so.

When his foster father finally left, spent and all together much too pleased with himself, Pinocchio allowed the tears to fall. His head hurt. Everything hurt.

The next morning, he had scrubbed himself in the shower until his skin was raw and sensitive and he still felt disgusting and he did not feel like Pinocchio. He would never be Pinocchio ever again.

He opened the bathroom door, a scratchy white towel wrapped around him, to find a boy, a little bit older, staring at him with a world of sadness in his eyes. His skin was paler than it should have been, especially against the darkness encircling his eyes and the blackness of his hair. "He touched you too, didn't he? The bugger didn't come fuck me last night."

The little puppet boy ran to his room, red shame alighting over his body.

~oOo~

"Why d'you call her principessa?" The boy who had sent him running from the bathroom asked as August wiggled his finger from Emma's tiny fist. He had been telling her stories of her parents, wrapped up in the pretense of fairy tales. He had found the book in the bag of provisions the blue fairy had given him that first night, and Emma was always quiet for these readings.

He looked up and took a deep breath. He knew it was bad to lie. He did. But the truth was, in this world, lies were keeping Emma safe and… he didn't want anyone to know. This boy, this Julio, was the only one to share in his shame so far as he knew, but that was already too many secrets for two strangers to share.

"Papa called her that. He was Italian. I guess I picked it up." Well, it wasn't completely a lie. More a half-truth. Besides, they passed as siblings now that her hair was coming in blonde. The blonde and the ginger, holding on to whatever they could. She had grasped his finger again, cooing in delight.

"That's stupid."

August shrugged. He supposed princess would be better. Less weird. Call less attention.

"The bugger bit you last night, huh?"

Yes, it had been weeks, and August was the new favorite. He couldn't blush anymore, and shrugged once again.

"It's because you're prettier than I am. Fuck you, stupid baby." Julio shoved him into the crib and then spun out of the room as August hurried to keep it upright. Emma was laughing, pleased by this rocking motion, and August was relieved the contraption hadn't sent her tumbling to the floor on her little head.

He did not want to be the favorite. He did not want this. So he pretended it was not happening and continued amusing the little princess he had promised to protect. Even if no one had ever said it would be so hard.

~oOo~

He knew it was wrong to leave, but it seemed that as time wore on, the foster father was more violent. Purple bruises blossomed everywhere, and he was so tired. Sleeping had become impossible.

But Emma would be safe. The foster father did not like little girls, or so he had gathered. The princess would be safe.

She had to be.

He gave her chubby little cheek a kiss. "I'm sorry, princess," he sighed, before smoothing the wrinkle on her baby forehead and running out the door to join his new family. He was vaguely reminded of the never aging Peter Pan's gaggle of Lost Boys and held on to the exhilaration of a new adventure and freedom from this moldy nightmare. He almost turned back when he heard her crying. Instead, he whispered his farewell to the air, hoping it would carry.

"Ciao, principessa."

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**Disclaimer: I own nothing, except I do own Julio.**

**I CAN'T SEEM TO WRITE NOT SAD THINGS. But Stonington wanted a back-story about after he abandoned Emma. Instead, I did one about why he did such a terrible, terrible thing. **

**I'm sorry, dear. These things do write themselves, after all. Which is why I am two days late from the whole within a week deadline.**

**I lied, okay?**

**I'm sorry.**

**Okay. Also. Something happy next. I SWEAR. Because all these unbeta'd pieces are getting on my nerves. And Gliding One can't really handle it. Even if she loves August. But first I'm going to clean my house. And then I'm going to swim. And then I'll write something else, today. Love Mondays.**

**Anyways, remember: reviews are like red bras, what with the whole confidence and support thing.**


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